Assassin's Creed Oracle
by Hero-hugger
Summary: Abstergo Industries was the front for the Templars, and allowed them to use human subjects for experiments. Wren, the niece of a former Assassin, is captured, and thrown back through time. Now, in the midst of a country post liberation, scarred with mental and physical scars from her master, she uses her visions to fight for her freedom, and those she had come to love.
1. Chapter 1 Uncertain Future

**Sorry, I know I had only begun the story, but I saw too many plot holes for it to continue. Instead, I decided to alter the beginning to fix future problems. This is my first FanFiction, but I love Connor like you would not believe, and needed to express my eternal love. I now have a thing for Native Americans, despite the fact I live in Australia and have never met one. But I may dream, and here it goes, the real first chapter of Assassin's Creed Oracle.**

Chapter One: Uncertain Future

Relentlessly, grips firm and unyielding, they dragged her from her cell, despite her desperate cries. She felt as if they were so silent, the rooms so empty, that she could hear each tear that fell from her raw cheek, and continued to stream down her face.

"Please," she begged weakly, trying and failing to stand, "please."

Cold and emotionless as stone, they ignore her pleas, as the pulled her down a corridor as long as eternity, and near as black as death. Every few moments, bright, industrial lights would illuminate certain parts of the hall, reminding her that despite the dust, and the dampness, people were down here, for some ungodly reason. The far-spaced lighting hurt her eyes, as it was a minute or two of walking between each, and in that time, her eyes had once more adjusted to the dark. Her guards appeared to care not in the slightest. As the minutes dragged on, fear turned to terror, and despite her fading strength, she began to stir against their grips, sensing something dreadful ahead. Like death was waiting in the shadows just past the lights.

"No," she hears herself say, a strange authority in her tone, "stop."

It seemed they almost faltered, for a moment so slight it was almost non-existent, but they did. Perhaps they had been programed to follow any voice with authority, or they may have just mistaken her for another.

"Stop," she said again, "I command you to stop at once."

Quick as lightning, a hand, gloved in leather, struck her across the face so she was reeling, fighting to remember which way was up. They continued on. Without saying a word.

Finally, after a length of time too long but simultaneously short, they stopped, and turned to face the wall. She stared, the worn stone just as same as the walls she had passed before. She opened her mouth to speak, but there was a click, a hiss, and then a section of the wall fell in, and slid to one side. She was too speechless to say what was blatantly obvious. A secret door. Once she'd recovered from the shock of the strange opening, her eyes focused on a single beam of light in the middle of a room that she had no clue of where its boundaries lay. Silent as ghosts, the men led her forward, towards that light, and the metal chair within it, and dumped her like she were not at all human. And then, they turned, and left her in silence. Hours could've ticked by, as she curled herself into a ball on that cold, hard chair, her paper gown rustling as she did. Her hair, tangled and filthy, fell into her eyes, so she began the slow process of detangling the mess.

"Good evening, Miss Wren." She froze, heart leaping into her throat, and choking her. A man, dressed in a tailored suit with a white lab overcoat, and a trimmed beard stepped from the darkness that surrounded them. He smiled, pleasantly, and on first instinct, she wanted to like him. But she didn't. The corner of his lips was too pinched, his eyes to razor sharp to be anyone of a kind disposition. No, her parents had spent an age teaching her about people's faces, how little things could mean the world of difference. This man wanted something.

"Hello," she croaked, and slid her feet back down, until they were flat on the ground. Worried that her shaking fingers would give away her terror, she slid them beneath her. She noticed how his eyes flicker over every little move she'd made.

"Are you being treated alright?"

"I'm cold."

She added a subtle shudder to her shoulders, which wasn't all forced; it was damp and cold in that room.

"I'm so sorry," he sighed, sliding his glasses down so as to pinch the bridge of his nose, "I'm trying to help you. They should never have treated you like this."

Lie. His chin continually wanted to be uptilted; he was used to power, he was the leader.

"Please," she whispered, a tear slipping loose, "I want to go home."

"You will," he assured, "we just need to test a few things. Is that alright?"

She nodded, despite the warning bells peeling in her head so loudly that it hurt.

"Good. How old are you Wren?"

"20," she replied, "when can I see my uncle?"

"Soon," he soothed, "he is waiting for you, as well as your parents. We've just to finish a few things."

"Do you promise?"

He blinked, in surprise, despite him trying to play it off as an allergy or something by rubbing his eye.

"Of course, my dear, on my honour."

"Liar."

He froze, raising those knife like eyes to hers. He was surprised, or seemed it, and shook his head.

"I do not lie. I promised."

"Promises mean nothing to you. You crossed your fingers. My parents abandoned me. My uncle is dead, and you killed him."

Finally, he drops the act, and smiles.

"Indirectly, yes," he replied, "but I gave the order for their deaths."

She relaxed then, far more comfortable with the beast revealed than it trying to hide its horrors beneath sheep's clothing.

"What do you want?"

He smiles like the Cheshire cat, his teeth too white and too straight, his skin too smooth and perfect.

"I want to know why it is you were kept so hidden from us. Why you were stolen away from the Order by your uncle. What was it about you?"

"You could ask him yourself, when I kill you."

His smile deepens into a grin with too much teeth, like he's a lion ready to feast on her flesh.

"There will be no killing. You see, we've suspected for some time what it is about you. Marvellous really. Such a unique ability that could ultimately turn the tide of this war in our favour."

"I will never tell you a thing."

"You are not here for us, dear," he chuckled, rising and straightening his perfect outfit, "but for our forefathers."

Foreboding, thick and dark as tar, began to trickle into her heart, her veins. Time seemed to slow. So cryptic, his words, and yet a deep part of her felt as if she knew what it was exactly he was telling her. As if she had seen it before, in a dream, and forgotten.

"Come."

Like shadows, the two escorts appeared, and hefted her from her seat, and she remained weightless between them as shock overtook her. A string of industrial lighting began to flicker to life, illuminating a raised metal walkway that led to an elevated glass box.

"No."

She remembered, of a memory, or dream, or both when she was suffocating in glass, spinning and twisting and floating and staying completely and utterly still all at once.

"No."

There was hysteria in her voice, pure, wild and terrified. Her feet began to kick, flailing at her captors.

"NO!"

More lights turned on, and revealed a room of white coated people; standing or sitting, all intently focused on screens, and that horrible glass cell. She became a beast of teeth and nails, and she struck like a hell cat at anything she could, drawing blood from a bite on one captors arm.

"No, no, NO!"

Like a piece of trash, she was thrown inside, and landed painfully on her arm. With a whir, the near invisible door closed, and she was left lying in that beautifully terrible cube. She shook, rising and then near collapsing from the shudders that wracked her body. She should have fought, should have remembered all the training that had been beaten into her throughout her whole existence. Glass, she was surrounded by it, and when he mind began to function beyond that animalistic need to survive, did she realise it. Glass could break. She walked, slowly, to one edge, and touched the surface. It felt real, and exactly as she remembered glass felt, cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. She tapped, and listened to it. Just as she remembered. She struck, closed fist and with her whole upper body thrown into it, and the singing of trembling glass filled her ears. She tried again, and again, until it seemed her head would explode from the sheer power behind that noise, but it did not crack, nor splinter. She swore, loudly, in words her Uncle had told her never to use, and screamed. Frustration, dark and suffocating, began to fill that glass prison, until she collapsed on the floor and wept.

She did not remember falling asleep, nor did she remember the pedestal in the centre of the prison, a strange humming enumerating from its core. Trepidation filled her, and her heart lurched from a steady pace into a thundering gallop that drowned out all but that insistent hum. She had always had a good sense of danger, and right now, it was worse than any she had ever had before, even when her home had burnt down, and she was close to death at the hand of other Templars. Now this contraption from Abstergo industries was driving madness into her brain, until she was screeching in utter terror, and beating at the glass walls until her knuckles bled. The sound grew louder, and changed from a hum to a ringing that was like nails on a chalkboard, and worse still. She curled in on herself, pressing bloody fists to her ears to keep out the noise, and screaming herself hoarse in a desperate attempt to drown it out. It reached a fever pitch, and the pedestal began to throb with light. Blinded, she turned away, throwing her hands in front of her face to protect it from the sudden heat.

"Help!" she screamed, but her voice was torn away by that unnatural power that ebbed and flowed, and grew ever larger.

"Stop!"

She could see, then, everyone outside, and their gazes all focused on her, the way she was thrown against the glass. She was going to die, she was so sure. And no one would care. A strange object rose from inside that single stand, and though she couldn't see it through the light, images of the Apple, and other artefacts were burned into the back of her eyelids. A precursor item, then. She wondered what power it could possibly have. It glowed like a newly formed star, and burned like it too; her skin began to redden like it would had she been under the summer sun for hours. This was it. Her final thoughts where on the chance that where ever her soul ended next, would she have the chance to meet her mother once more. And if so, would everything be explained. She had barely started a final prayer, before a jolt of pure energy pulsed through her, and she was thrown into a vision.


	2. Chapter 2 New World

Chapter Two New World

She breathed deep, gathering her composure, until she could pass the guards without flinching in fear. Her hands, gloved in calfskin, smoothed her corset, and her full skirts, and straightened the bonnet atop her head. Her maid, Eleanor, had spent a good hour or two twisting her golden hair into a style many upper class women sported, and had laced Wren tightly into her dress. She was a lady. Around her shoulders, the dark skinned women draped a dark grey cape, with a hood lined in rabbit fur, around her shoulders.

"Ready, miss?"

It was the same question Eleanor asked every time Wren went to town, and was not unusual. But today, of all days, it meant so much more.

"Yes," Wren breathed, fighting to keep her excitement from her escort. If they even just suspected, she'd be locked away once more in her beautiful prison, and left until she went mad. No, it had taken months to plan such a scheme, to flee to where her visions were showing her. If she reached it, it could tip the scales on the invisible war waging across the newly founded Americas. The British had mostly left, and now, the new country was establishing its foundations, with the help of George Washington, a legend in this time, and hers. But first, before she got too excited, the escape would have to succeed.

"Wren."

She froze, momentarily, but quickly recovered, setting that cold, lost mask on her face for perhaps the last time. She turned, and met those beautiful blue eyes, much brighter and livelier than her stormy greys. His hair, black as midnight, was slicked back, and tied with a crimson ribbon at the base of his neck. He was roguishly handsome, and tall, and his voice resonated deep in his chest.

"Master Lee," she replied, bowing deeply.

"My dear, off so soon?"

"Yes," she replied softly, "I would prefer to arrive earlier; I have a much better chance of finding something I like."

"Of course."

Her heart lurched, but she remained impassive, unfeeling.

"I do hope you return soon, I'd love to see what you purchased."

"Of course," she repeated. A knowing spark ignited those eyes, and she mentally screamed in terror. He couldn't know, could he? No, she calmed herself, no he was playing mind games. And she would not lose. She steeled herself, and bowed once more.

"Master."

He stepped closer, then, so close as she could feel his breath on her face.

"If you find something I would like, do not hesitate to purchase it."

Her breath faltered as his hand slid to the small of her back, and his finger traced a circle there, then lower. She could feel Eleanor's tension from where she stood, half hidden by the door.

"Of course, Master."

She thanked the devil that her voice hadn't trembled, and bowed, a third time, fluidly.

"Well then, I shall see you later. I have matters to attend to in Boston. I shall return within a few days."

Boston. He wouldn't be home, so if she failed, she would not receive one of his punishments; because if she was caught, she would make sure she would not see the light of another day. He stepped away, and she let out an invisible breath.

"I bid you farewell," he said graciously, and spun on his heel and left. She too, turned, and hoped to never see the interior of that dreaded manor again. Her coach was waiting, a team of four horses anxiously pulling at the reins. Her driver shot her a look that urged her to hurry, but she ignored him, and turned back to her friend. She embraced her, as they did every other time.

"When I find him, I will come for you," she murmured softly into El's ear, and it was only the slight tightening of the dark girl's arms around her middle that let her no her words had not gone unheard. She stepped back, and watched her friend and maid bow, before she turned and climbed into the carriage, the two escorts climbing in after. They drew down the blinds, as per usual, and the carriage clattered away.

The city of New York was already bustling with activity, as men filled ships with cargo and other called their wares on salt-roughened voices. The gulls screeched overhead, mocking the hungry and envying the fed. Washington's men paced the streets, their muskets freshly polished and resting comfortably on their shoulders. Another normal day within the city; unsuspecting of what was to come next. The coach pulled to the side, so as Wren could reach the pavement without soiling her fine things. She drew a crowd; not many people had the luxury of such fine transport, so the sight was always a treat. With the two men at her heels, she sauntered like a regal lady into the thriving marketplace, already near full with people trying to steal a good price. Despite her unhurried, drifting pattern, Wren's attention was intently focused on the little tailor near the harbour; and what freedom it promised. Eventually, after hours of dilly-dallying, she entered the little shop, and began to rifle through the fabrics on display. Beautiful brocade and elegant lace, and all completely unappealing in retrospect to what momentous things awaited. She still focused on them, however, studying the fine details and eyeing off any faults; just as she would any other visit.

"Madame?"

Wren turned, and smiled softly at the girl before her, her dark brown hair pinned up into her cap.

"Yes?"

She curtsied, and smiled back, sheepishly.

"We have some dresses for you, Madame, out the back."

Wren nodded, indicating for her to lead the way. Through a gilded mirror, she noticed the two escorts share a look, and trudge outside to take up a post at the front door.

"Do you have it?"

Lilly nodded eagerly, despite the fearful tension in her shoulders. Wren's heart went out for her; for all that Lilly was risking to help her.

"Yes, Madame, a commoner's dress, and the strange robes you asked for me to make."

She led me past the public space, and into the living area beyond, where Lilly and her mother worked into the late hours of the night to sew beautiful clothes for the privileged.

"Right through her, miss."

She opened the door into a little space; her sleeping quarters, and gestured to the things on the small bed. A dark grey dress with a cloak and cap sat waiting, beside another bundle wrapped in brown paper. Lilly had barely closed the door before Wren was pulling off my things, eager to be away with them. The dress fit poorly; it was too large, but it solidified the image of poverty she was trying to show.

"Lilly, my hair."

"But Madame," she argued, "it's so beautiful."

"I am not vain."

She grabbed a pair of clothing shears, and carefully, gently, cut the long locks, until they were just above the shoulders. When they looked down, Wren was standing in a puddle of golden strands. She then grabbed a brick of dye, and rubbed it into the remaining locks, until they dulled, and turned from gold to mud brown. Finally, Wren stood before her quaint mirror, and stared at herself. She looked like any other servant girl, on an errand to grab her mistress's wares. She was no longer Wren, the privileged prisoner.

"Thank you," she breathed, and spun, embracing her friend, "for everything."

"It was my pleasure, Madame."

Despite Wren's insistence, Lilly would not take her money, claiming it would be more use to her. Despite that, Wren slid a heavy purse of gold beneath the pillow of the small bed; Lilly would need it more than she. And if the plan didn't succeed, financial issues would not be of the highest priority.

"There's a small stable down the road, I've already had a mount set aside. It's under my name."

Trembling with fear, and excitement, I followed the petite girl through to the back of the building, and into the alley beyond.

"Head that way," she said, pointing away from the harbour, "and you can't miss it. Once there, keep heading in that direction, and ask for help, if need be. In no time, you'll be free."

I kissed her cheek, and embraced her once more, and only pressed my forehead to hers in appreciation; there was no words to describe my gratitude. And then, she pushed me, down the rickety steps.

"Go now, before those men become suspicious."

I heeded her warning, and left, striding purposefully away from the shop, and the men, and that life.

It was all as she said, a gentle mare, already saddled and waiting, and when Wren paid the stable hand, she left a few coins extra, and asked for silence. She mounted quickly, adjusting herself to the body beneath hers, before she nudged the mare's sides, and was off. She was shocked when little attention was given to her as she trotted past. Dressed in manner of fine things, eyes were naturally drawn to her, but now, she may as well have been invisible. It lightened her; not to be on constant guard, and she found herself breaking into a canter; the wind teasing her newly shortened hair as she sped past City Street after City Street. When the houses began to change from mainly stone to largely wood, she steadied her mount back into a walk, as she left the city limits, and the frontier opened wide and welcoming before her. She cleared the hill, and broke into a gallop, the wind stealing the laugh from her lips. Trees swallowed the rapidly receding city, until there was only trees and wilderness and cold fresh air. She galloped on for a few good miles, but slowed when a settlement began to appear from between trunks. It was small, tiny in comparison from the city she had come from, and the only inn in town was small and quaint. She tied her mount to the hitching post, and slipped inside, that wrapped package tucked securely under her arm. People milled about, men drowning themselves in ale while barmaids sat in their laps and slipped more money free from their unprotected pockets. Upstairs, the noise was considerably less, and Wren passed past occupied rooms until she found a small closet. It was dusty, and dark; the only light from a dust-coated window allowing a sliver of moonlight to filter through. Never the less, she ducked inside, and barred the door so as she would not be disturbed while she changed. In the dark, she could barely tell which way the new clothing went, let alone what they looked like, but she knew soon she would be able to see herself. Once she was decent, she left, and secured weapons belts and such in the brighter light offered by a roaring fire. She couldn't tie up all of her hair, so she grabbed a spare piece of ribbon, and tied up the top half, to keep it from her face. Downstairs, she brought an ale, despite its horrendous taste, and looked at her reflection through the dented metal. Despite the strange reflection, she could see, barely, that Lilly had done her job well.

Outside, the weather had taken a turn for the worst, and the first snow of winter began to fall. She swore, loudly, and mounted up, hoping to outrace the incoming blizzard before it hit. By the wary looks of the villagers, it was going to be big. She was off again, relying heavily on the faltering, sparse path left to her by her visions; from events that'd occurred years before. With the snow, she would find herself suddenly lost, leaning heavily over the horse's shoulder to keep track of the disappearing path beneath its hooves. She would, increasingly regularly, become completely disorientated, as great gales threw walls of snow in her path. She had no idea how she had managed to stay on her horse, let alone continue to head in the right direction, but never the less, she began to climb a hill, and into a small canyon, and down the other side, a sheer drop from a cliff down her left, before the canyon closed in, and then disappeared completely. There were trees everywhere, and she began to doubt whether she had followed her required path, when she briefly caught a glimmer of light in the distance. She urged the exhausted mount on, and cried in relief when an inn loomed from the whiteness, and she was far too tired to look at the sign.

"Hello," Wren called, slipping inside to the delirious warmth, "hello?"

"My goodness, dear, what were you doing out in that monster of a storm."

An elderly woman bustled out from behind the bar, and rushed to her. Her cheeks were rosy with exertion.

"I'm sorry to intrude," she gasped, "but I'm looking for the Davenport manor. Am I lost?"

She smiled warmly.

"No, my dear, it's over the bridge and yonder. Why, is everything alright?"

Her knees grew weak with relief; she had finally made it.

"No," she cried in joy, "everything is fine. Everything is wonderful."

Before the old woman could say a word more, Wren was out the door and astride that poor, wilting beast, urging it for only a little while more. The bridge disappeared behind them, and then a church, and finally, a familiar manor sat waiting for her atop a small plateau. She knew exactly where the stables lay, and found a clean, warm stall for the poor nag, and brushed and fed her. and once finished, she turned to the building, and all that it represented. Freedom. Hope. Life. Quickly brushing herself clean, she took a reassuring breath, and walked the path from the stables, to the front door. She knocked, gingerly at first, but louder and more expectant. And when she heard wood creak inside, she stood back, and tucked her hands behind her back. A maid. Only a servant would be awake at this hour of the night. The door opened, and the light from inside blinded her, but she spoke anyway.

"Excuse me, I am looking for a Mr Kenway."

"I am he."

When her eyes focused, she saw that face that had haunted her visions for months. The face she had studied from sketches hurriedly scribbled, only to be burnt for fear of persecution. His eyes were brown, but so warm that even relived memories could not contain it. She stepped back.

"Connor," she breathed, "its you."


	3. Chapter 3 An Opportunity

Chapter Three An Opportunity

"Connor," she breathed, "it's you."

Despite having seen him for years through her visions, Wren couldn't help but be stunned by his features. His face was too rugged, too sharp to be handsome, but the only words she could think that could describe him was beautiful. That strange haircut he had taken on after his father's death had grown out, and he was back to his usual long hair. Around his neck hung a string with three bear claws, which she could see peeking out from beneath the worn shirt he wore. His feet were bare and his trousers seemed to be made of some sort of hide.

"Do I know you?"

"No," she replied, "but I know you."

His brows lowered, with curiosity and suspicion.

"How?"

His voice was hard, cold. There was no room for small talk.

"I'm a fortune-teller, of sorts."

His gaze darkened even more so, and he shifted, slightly, into a defensive stance, as if expecting an attack.

"I do not believe in such things."

"But what of you clan mother?"

A knife appeared in his hand, and he lunged, twisting her until she was backed against his chest. The blade's edge was cold against her throat.

"How do you know her?"

"I told you," she breathed in fear, "I can see things."

His grip loosened, slightly.

"Tell me something else, something only I would know."

She froze, trying to remember every single vision that had plagued her.

"You once dreamed that Washington was tainted by the Apple of Eden."

She felt him seize, and she began to tremble. Shock rolled off him in waves.

"How could you know such things," he whispered, releasing her, "how is this possible?"

"I don't know," she replied, facing him once more, "I wish I knew."

He looked at her, for some time, before he stood aside. Understanding his invitation, she slipped inside, and turned right into the dining room. She froze, and studied the painting above the mantel piece.

"Achilles."

She heard Connor grunt in conformation, as she stepped forward, closer. The detail was impeccable, the likeness magnificent. Even the emotion in his eyes was perfect. She bowed her head, suddenly saddened. She had wanted so badly to have met him, when she'd realised where the Artefact had left her. His wisdom would've been welcomed.

"Did you know him?" Connor asked, from behind her. She startled, at his ability to move undetected.

"I knew of him," she corrected, "I admired him greatly. I wish I had have been able to meet him. To ask for his help."

"He was very wise," Connor muttered, after some time.

"Indeed."

"Are you an assassin?"

She spun, indignant.

"I am not here to kill you," she cried in her defence. She could see how he would've thought of such things.

"Your robes," he said, gesturing to her attire. She glanced down, and sighed shakily at the Brotherhood styled robes.

"Oh," she laughed, nervously, "I used to be."

"How does one 'used to be an assassin'?"

She met his eyes, and was deeply relived to find no negative emotions there.

"It's a long story. Too long for tonight."

He opened his mouth, like he was going to say something, but was interrupted by another.

"Connor?"

She turned to the kitchen door, and her jaw nearly dropped to the ground. A woman stood against the door frame, her hair mused with sleep. She wore an oversized shirt, a man's shirt, rather than a nightgown, and her legs were toned and beautifully golden. Wren recognised her, but only remembered her being a fellow assassin. Was he with her? For some reason, Wren's stomach bottomed out, though she had no claim to him. Instead, she should've been excited rather, for it meant his bloodline would continue.

"Did we wake you Dobby?"

A strange name that brought more memories to her mind. Dobby had been recruited by Connor into the Brotherhood, after helping him loosen the control the Templars had had on Boston and New York. At the mention of 'we', she straightened, fighting the veil of sleep to focus on Wren. She was unusually beautiful, not by normal standards. Her hair was as short as Wren's, perhaps shorter, and was dark brown. Her accent suggested she was Irish.

"Who's this?" Dobby asked him, turning away from her like she didn't exist.

"Bonjour," Wren said kindly, to match her accent, "my name is Wren."

She continued to look at Connor, like they were having a silent dialogue. If Dobby was here, perhaps Stephane would too. Wren had met the fellow Frenchman in New York, and recognised him. They had met often, and she'd confided in him about my situation after a few months of talking. He'd offered to help her, but she had foolishly refused. She started to regret that decision.

"Is Stephane here?"

They both looked at Wren, and she began to feel like they were scrutinising her. Whatever their silent discussion had been, it did not bode well for her.

"No," Connor replied, "he is away on an errand. He should arrive by the time the storm has passed."

Dammit. She glanced at them once more, and decided the best course of action would be to create distance.

"I should return to the inn," Wren said softly, "and return by the morning. It was incredibly rude of me to intrude at such an hour."

She started for the door, but Dobby's voice halted her.

"Please," she called, "Miss Wren. We have extra beds if you would like to stay. It wouldn't be polite for us to send you back out into that blizzard."

Her sudden change of attitude uneased Wren, to the point of nausea. Her instincts began to tingle with warning.

"Please, we insist."

Etiquette over ruled common sense.

"Thank you," Wren sighed, "it would be most welcome."

She smiled brightly, and it made her only more attractive. She could see why Connor had chosen such a partner.

"Would you like some tea?"

Again, Wren dismissed her instincts, and agreed, and Dobby disappeared to boil some water. Connor led her upstairs, to a bedroom, and allowed her inside. It was beautiful; paintings of see battles and the frontier wilderness covered the walls, and a bookcase full of classics covered one wall.

"Thank you," she breathed in awe, "it's beautiful."

Dobby waltzed through, a saucer and cup in her fine, elegant hands. Wren noticed with distain that her fingers were unattractive in comparison. The warm china in her hands eased a tension she wasn't aware she'd had. It had changed quite vastly from that morning. She was now a free woman. She felt giddy with happiness.

"Here," Dobby said softly, adding a cube of sugar, "drink up."

She did as she was told and closed her eyes at the delirious warmth that began to spread through her limbs. The tea was unusual, like nothing she'd ever had, but was not unappealing.

"What kind of tea is this?" Wren asked, and thought, briefly, that she had slurred her words.

"My own blend," the other woman smiled brightly, as Wren's consciousness disappeared.

When Wren awoke, she was pleased to no longer hear the sounds of the storm raging outside, meaning it had passed. If that were true, Stephane would arrive soon, and she'd have his support. It was dark still, but her internal body clock told her it was well past morning. Something was amiss. Wondering briefly if the Templars had found them, she just as quickly dismissed the notion; Thomas had spent many months trying to find this location, to no avail. No, something else. She stretched, but was horrified to find her hands bound. Still groggy with sleep, she began to ground herself' wiggling her toes and her fingers. She was sitting in a chair, and her hands were bound with rope. Besides the uneasy feeling in her gut, and the pain in her shoulders from tugging against her restraints, she was uninjured.

"You're awake."

She wasn't sure of what scared her more; being found out, or that it was Dobby's voice that she'd heard.

"Now," the other woman purred, "you are going to tell us the real reason why you are here."

"What?"

She opened her eyes, slowly, groaning at the swelling around her eyes. Her vision was blurred.

"I'm going to ask you some questions. All you have to do is answer them."

Her heart lurched into a gallop.

"What is your name?"

"Wren." The words poured from her lips without restraint. It was like she couldn't stay silent.

"Where are we, Wren?"

She fought to not reply, pressing her lips into a thin line, but her voice answered Dobby's question.

"Davenport Manor."

She began to tremble with fear at her body's betrayal.

"What is this?"

"I have a special blend of herbs," Dobby boasted, "that makes people very loose of tongue. Shall we continue?"

Her eyes began to focus, and she saw Dobby leaning against a stone wall, grinning like a cat. Wren stifled a cry when she saw Connor lurking in the shadows.

"Please," she whimpered, straining against the rope, "help me."

He didn't have the dignity to maintain eye contact.

"Where are you from?"

"America."

She rolled her eyes.

"Where did you come from this morning?"

A gritting of teeth. "Boston."

"Who are you looking for?"

"Please!"

"Who?"

"Connor Kenway."

They shared a look, and Connor's eyes were filled with darkness and mistrust. Dobby smirked at Wren, her eyes flashing.

"Why are you doing this? I didn't do anything!" Wren groaned, fighting back her tears.

"This is an interrogation, Wren," she spat her name like poison, "and we aim to find out what you are doing here. You are guilty until proven otherwise, and we have the authority to execute for the assassination attempt on Connor Kenway."

Wren gaped in horror, and felt the monumental weight of those words. If her answers were satisfactory, it would spell her death.

"Last questions now," she soothed mockingly, "did you work with the Templars?"

A sharp intake of breath, the only indication of her internal battle, save for the tears that had started to stream down her face.

"I'm not your enemy!"

"Answer the question!" Dobby's voice was as sharp and as cold as an ice dagger. She felt it as it slipped between her ribs.

"Yes."

It had barely been more than a sigh of air, but she had answered the question. Despite it, however, both the assassin's face was drawn with shock at the revelation.

"Please," Wren implored, fighting once more at her restraints, "let me explain!"

"Do you know the new Grand Master?"

No, no, no, no, no her mind screamed as her heart began to falter in its maddened gallop, skipping beats that racked her whole body.

"Please." Wren's voice was growing strained and quiet.

"Answer it."

"Yes," she cried, "I know the Grand Master."

Something in her began to crack and splinter, as she realised what the tone in her voice suggested. Dobby's eyes narrowed, and she pushed off from the wall, stalking closer.

"He shared your bed, didn't he?"

She fisted her hands, and strained against the rope; the wooden chair groaning as she pulled. She gritted her teeth, hard, and the resulting pressure built up in her head, until a drop of blood dripped from her nose, and grew into a steady trickle. If she spoke those words, all those horrors would come flooding back.

"Please," she sobbed, imploring the Master Assassin with her eyes, "please, don't do this."

His gaze seemed to soften, with sympathy, before it turned to stone, and he straightened.

"Answer the question," he snarled.

Her lips wobbled as the words began to dangle precariously close to the end of her tongue, testing. She began to shake as blood continued to splatter her front, staining her beautiful robes with the evidence of her resilience.

"Help," she finally screamed, hoping someone, anyone, would hear, "please help me!"

They closed in, like wolves, scenting the blood, her weakness. Her gaze blurred on the male figure, and she tried to move past the betrayal she had felt. She had run from the Templars, only to fall into more horrors.

"Stephane!"

Her vision began to waver as her strength waned, but she was lucid enough to hear the sound of a door slamming.

"Connor, Dobby?" the distinctive French voice asked.

"Stephane!"

There was a string of curse words, a muffled "Sacreu bleu", and then booted feet stomping down the basement steps. Stephane's face appeared, and paled with horror.

"Stephane," Wren begged, weakly, "help."

"What is your answer?" Dobby's voice was wrath incarnate, and it snapped what little strength Wren had left.

"Yes," she sighed, feeling that fragile sanity fray, and disintegrate into nothing. Years of hard work fighting her way back from the cliff face, dangling over the edge, reduced to nothingness. She felt herself teeter on the edge, and then fall into the darkness of her wrecked soul.

Stephane was aghast to find a familiar young woman tied to a chair in the basement, her nose gushing blood. He hadn't thought that he'd see her anytime soon; he had not heard from her in months. The fact that she had _survived_ , and was now free filled him with such joy, which was quickly extinguished by what lay before him.

"What is this," he cried in horror, "what have you done?"

Dobby turned to him, her brows raised with superiority.

"We were interrogating a suspect."

He glanced once more at the unconscious girl, before looking at Connor.

"You allowed this?"

He crossed his arms, and met his stare.

"I had solid grounds, Stephane."

"Solid grounds," the Frenchman cried, "what was the evidence against her?"

"She arrived in the middle of a blizzard. Only the desperate would have attempted such a feat."

"She _was_ desperate," he snarled, replacing his horror with stone cold rage, "she was escaping the Templars!"

"She was working for them," Dobby fired back, "she said so herself."

"She had had a blade at her throat you idiot!"

Silence fell after his insult had died away. Dobby was gaping, unused to being put in place.

"She had been their prisoner for years, because they were using her for her abilities. She was seeking _sanctuary_ here!"

"She didn't tell us anything?"

"Did she inquire about me? Did she tell you of her gifts? What was it about her there led you to do this?"

Dobby opened her mouth, to retort, but it became apparent she had nothing to say. Stephane shook his head, in misery and horror, and turned away, walking towards the elephant in the room. She was limp, and the blood that had been rushing down her chin had reduced to a small trickle.

"Wren?" he asked softly, as he cut the rope around her wrists.

She stirred, slowly, and only a little, but groaned.

"Stephane," she muttered, her voice strained with screaming.

"I'm here," he whispered, scooping her up, "I'm here, you're safe mademoiselle."

She was too exhausted to hold up her head, and it rested heavily against his shoulder. When he moved towards his fellow companions, they stepped aside and let him pass.

"Stephane," she began to stir, "they made me remember."

"I know," he simply replied; he had no words but those to comfort her.

"I didn't want to remember," she cried, "I wanted to forget. I just wanted to forget."

"I know, Wren, but I'm here now. I'm here now."

Upstairs, he carried her to his room; he did not trust the female assassin to leave her be. Her placed her on the bed, and covered her in his thick quilt. He could care less that she smeared dark blood all over his pillows, or that he bare feet had been filthy from the cellar. No, she had come for aid, and the Assassins had failed. Connor had failed.

"I'm sorry Stephane."

Connor watched from the open doorway, his face drawn with guilt. Stephane looked at his friend, and saw the shame written all over his body. Connor had vowed to protect the weak, but had failed Wren, had failed Stephane. So Stephane pushed away his empathy, and hardened himself like tempered steel.

"Sorry will not erase the past."

The door was swift and silent as it closed in Connor's face.


	4. Chapter 4 Heavy Guilt

Chapter Four Heavy Guilt

As he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, Connor was sure he heard screams. After the mess that had happened earlier that evening, he could hardly blame the girl. His lapse of judgement because of Dobby's suspicion was unacceptable. He rolled over, kicking off his sheets in the process. The fire had died down hours ago, and yet the room was sweltering. He considered opening a window, but thought better of it, in case the blizzard returned. He couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face, nose dripping blood, and he thought it was more horrific than anything he had ever seen. He had killed many people before, men and women in the Templar order, and not once had they looked like that. He cursed out loud, grinding his fists into his eyes in frustration. At that moment, he missed Achilles terribly, so much that his heart clenched. He sighed, and wondered what his mentor would have done in his place. Surely not interrogate her with Dobby's 'truth tea'.

"What am I doing old man?" he growled, throwing his hands in the air.

Connor was never going to be like Achilles, and at first, he had seen that as purely beneficial. But the old assassin would never had done what he had done, he would have taken that girl… Wren… in without a second glance, and trained her so as whatever had been done to her, it would never happen again. Tired of tossing and turning in a futile attempt to get some rest, he rose, wincing at the creak of the floorboards. From outside his room, he heard a blood curdling scream. Worried that somehow his foes had found them, he hurried out, grabbing a decorative knife from his chest of draws. He opened the door to silence, save for the gentle groan of the house as another gale thrashed its walls. He was shadows, and silence, and death and he slid onto the landing, and followed the sound of muttered curses. Candlelight flickered from under Stephane's door, and he watched as a shadow paced inside the room. He knocked, quietly, and waited, until Stephane opened the door. The Frenchman seemed unimpressed.

"Is everything alright?" Connor asked, trying to convey his genuine concern. Stephane must have seen, for he opened the door, and allowed him in. Stephane's room was rather bare, compared to Connor who had his traditional art hanging from any available place in his own. His attention was drawn away from the wall, however, by the thrashing figure on Stephane's bed. Wren's face was drawn with pain and weariness, and dried blood coated her chin and was splotched over her tunic and the sheets around her. Stephane's room was considerably cooler, but Wren had kicked the sheets off and they lay in a heap on the ground.

"She's having nightmares," Stephane sighed, following his mentor's gaze, "and she won't stay still. I tried waking her up, but it didn't work."

Connor raised his brow in inquiry, and Stephane nodded. He moved quietly to the bedside, and looked the girl over. There were tears shining on her cheeks, and her lips were pressed together tightly. He tried to ignore her mewls of terror, as he sat on the bed.

"Go grab some of those herbs," Connor instructed, "and put them in hot water."

Stephane disappeared, and left them in peace.

"Wren," he whispered, touching her shoulder gently, "wake up."

She clenched her eyes shut harder, and tried to roll away.

"Wake up Wren."

He trailed a finger up the side of her neck, and found a pressure point, and pushed. She shot up, eyes wide with fear and breathe rushing past her lips. Her eyes, unfocused and glistening with unshed tears, rove over the room, searching for an unknown danger. Though she was awake, she was still amidst whatever horrors that plagued her dreams.

"Hush," he whispered, "hush."

Those eyes, grey as steel, settled on his face.

"Connor?"

He was unsure whether or not she was still dreaming.

"Yes," he soothed, "I'm here."

A sigh, of exhaustion, that weighed heavily with years of hardships.

"I found you. I never thought I would, but I found you. You look so much like your father, who was so kind, better than Lee," she breathed, " but now we can stop it. Stop him. We need to stop him Connor!"

She grew wild, gripping his arms while imploring him with those tortured eyes. her nails bit so hard into his skin, he was sure they'd draw blood.

"Stop who? Who must we stop?"

Silence. She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. When she opened them, they were clear of the visions from her dreams.

"Where am I?"

She was awake now.

"Wren?"

Stephane stepped through the door, a cup in his hand.

"Stephane," she breathed, in relief or worry he couldn't be sure. The Frenchman slid to her side, setting down the drink on the bedside table.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Such a simple question, Connor thought, but the look on her face suggested just how important it was.

"I'm not ready," she whispered, throat thick with emotion, "I'm not sure I'll ever be ready."

"Whatever you decide, I'm here."

It was surreal, watching Stephane interact with their guest. Stephane, the vulgar assassin he knew had changed dramatically, within an instance. How paternal he seemed with a stranger, who kept secrets so dark that they drove her to fits of terror. He began to grow distant, suddenly feeling that thick, suffocating coat of guilt. He had brought those dark pasts to light, he was at fault. He rose, suddenly needing to leave, to give his victim space, and time. She glanced sideways at him, but quickly ducked away again; too ashamed to meet his gaze. Connor closed the door behind them, but decided to wait, in case Stephane followed. There was a few beats of silence, before a murmured conversation began to fill the air. He pressed his ear against the wall, and listened, despite the utter wrongness of doing so.

"I could kill him."

Stephane's voice was thick with barely contained rage, and he could only imagine the slur of curses that had been said before he'd heard.

"He meant well, Stephane."

She was defending him? he, the one who had forced her to relive such horrors?

"He had no reason to do that… to let Dobby do that!"

A heavy sigh, and a heavy chuckle.

"He has the future of an entire nation upon his shoulders. One casualty, compared to many is not an easy choice, but the right choice. He believed what he was doing was right, and how can we blame him for trying to protect the Brotherhood, to protect you? If there is at least a little chance that he can prevent what happened to me from happening to someone else, I would take the interrogation again, without question."

"What did they do to you?"

Connor's ears strained, afraid that she had only breathed the words, and he'd missed them. one of the many questions this girl had brought into their lives.

"I escaped, which is the important thing. And I will never go back, I'd rather die."

A hidden agenda, and Connor was not the only one to pick up on it.

"Suicide is not an honourable way to die."

"I have long ago given up on honour, integrity, and justice for myself," she vowed, "and I would rather slit my own throat than to go back. They will never take me alive. Never."

Such final words. He stepped away, in shock, in horror. She meant it, every last word. He couldn't fathom, couldn't even begin to imagine what the Templars had done to create such a wretched, broken soul, so shattered that she'd take her own life. Achilles had shared his beliefs with Connor, explained that his lord was a kind and merciful god. But what benevolent being would create such horrors? It sickened him. he had to leave, had to expel all the conflicting feelings inside him. he was going to explode, and he had to leave before there were any casualties. He took off down the stairs, three at a time, and barely missed a beat as he flung the door open. Outside, it was blissfully cold, and dampened his rage, only a little. What had he done? His horse, half asleep, nickered a small greeting as he strode into his stall, not stopping to saddle the stallion at all. no, he needed no barriers between him and the steed, so they could be one, even only for an instant, and let his troubled thought disintergrate into the night.

Wren wasn't surprised when she heard the footsteps rushing down the stairs, nor the thundering hooves as horse and rider disappeared into the night. She had known he was there, felt his proximity like a whisper of smoke against her consciousness. Strange, that, she had never felt such a thing before. perhaps her gift was evolving. Stephane, on the other hand, was in a rage, throwing around strange, vulgar words as he paced the room. She had meant for him to hear, Connor, so as he would know that she was not a threat, that she wasn't the enemy. And so he knew, even just a little, what monsters his foes were. It was the least she could do, for going into battle unprepared was no way to win. And she would make sure they would.

"Hush, Stephane. What's done is done."

He turned to her, shocked by her reasonable tone.

"You knew he was there?"

A nod.

"Why did you speak? Why say all those things."

"He needed to know I would not harm the Brotherhood. So he understood."

Stephane was stunned into silence. In an attempt to divert his attention elsewhere, she looked to the bedside table.

"What have you brought me?"

He shook himself, and moved closer, swiping up the cup in his hands.

"it's a herbal tea. It'll help you sleep, and should prevent further nightmares."

She seemed dubious, no doubt from her previous experience with herbal teas.

"I made it myself. It will not harm you, I swear."

She met his eyes, comforted by his honesty.

"I believe you."

She tipped it back, until the whole cup was empty, and placed it gently in Stephane's hands. He set in on his desk, and turned to leave.

"Stephane," she croaked, "don't leave me. Please… just stay until I fall asleep?"

He smiled, gently, and kicked off his boots.

"Of course."

She shifted aside, to allow him room, and he lay on top of the spread, tucking her close to his side.

"I'll stay."

He could see the tea taking affect, and she yawned, and rubbed her eyes.

"Thank you," she mumbled, drifting off hallway through.

He kissed her brow, a look of brotherly affection passing over his eyes.

"Anytime."

 **Please, please, please let me know what you think of it so far. Did I capture Connor right? It's tricky writing for such a complex character. And what do you think of Wren, the little-caged-bird-set-free? Comment your opinions!**


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